


Jailhouse Rock

by malchanceux



Category: Hannibal (TV), The Silence of the Lambs (1991)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Creepy Hannibal, Don't touch Hannibal's mongoose, Dubious Consent, He'll fuck you up, He'll fuck you up man, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Obsessive Behavior, Obsessive Hannibal, Prison Guard!Will, Prompt Fill, Protective Hannibal, Protectiveness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-18
Updated: 2014-11-13
Packaged: 2018-01-05 01:24:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1087952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/malchanceux/pseuds/malchanceux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fill for a long prompt that's basically: "Will is a guard at Baltimore's Hospital for the Criminally Insane. He's good at his job and respectful, which is something that draws Hannibal's attention. He's also the prettiest thing Hannibal's seen since his imprisonment, which only helps nurse the budding obsession in the man. Unfortunately, Will is present when Hannibal manages an escape and (regretfully) the doctor uses every tactic he knows to get free, no matter what condition that leaves his dear William in."</p><p>I made the actual fic perhaps a bit more fluffier/screwed up than the prompt would imply. Full, original prompt is in the bottom notes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I was supposed to be getting stuff done today, but instead I prompt filled. Oops.
> 
> Title picked only because that's what I had on repeat while writing this. Well, that and Avril Lavigne's "Girlfriend" (don't look at me like that, I never said I had good taste in music!).

            They’re not friends, it’s just that Will treats Hannibal Lecter with the respect every living creature deserves, and he seems to be the only one. The crimes the man committed are… atrocious, to put it mildly. But he was serving his time behind bars, living out his life sentence with nothing but stone walls and prodding, fumbling therapists to greet him every day. Will had only been at the Baltimore Hospital for the Criminally Insane for several months, as opposed to Hannibal’s several years, and the monotony was already making him stir crazy, and _he_ got to go home every night.

            Every aspect of Doctor Lecter’s life was dictated by a board of psychologists who _thought_ they knew what they were doing, and a truly sadistic, egocentric warden.

            Will figured the man was suffering enough without him acting like a complete twat.

 

 

 

            The first time they speak to each other is only Will’s first week on the job. He is, however, a little over qualified for his task as a psych ward guard and is unsurprised when Chilton decides he’s ready to take on a post usually reserved for senior guards. Will has twelve years as a New Orleans cop under his belt, seven of which he spent on homicide going back and forth between helping his own precinct, and giving the FBI his “insights” on the serial killers that plagued the United States.

            So he isn’t worried the first day he steps foot into the high security ward that held people like Abel Gideon and a certain _(infamous)_ Hannibal the cannibal. He’s dealt with hardened criminals before, and back then he didn’t have a wall of steel bars or Plexiglas between his person and theirs.

            There are fourteen cells in the block Will is assigned. Not all the patients he walks by that first day are lively. In fact, a lot of them are so whacked out of their minds on anti-psychotics Will suspects they wouldn’t even _move_ if their cells were to suddenly release them. Will doesn’t pity them so much as he feels sympathy toward their predicament _(like he can help it)._ He puts himself in their shoes _(as his mind often wont to do)_ and sees his worst nightmare staring back at him.

            Of course, not all fourteen men are so pliant. Especially, he learns, those like Miggs.

            “Oh you’re a pretty one aren’t ya?” he hisses from the corner of his bed, licking his lips lewdly as Will makes his first round down the corridor, _“Pretty, pretty, pretty.”_

Will is careful _not_ to empathize with him.

            When he comes to the end of the hall, the last cell on the left, Will does not find a drooling mess of a patient or an aggressive _(sexually or otherwise)_ thug snarking at the glass. Instead, he finds a lean, stoic man sitting straight at a desk, felt-tip pen in hand but not moving, halted mid stroke. Will is careful, as always, not to make eye contact, though the man seems to make it a point to do the complete opposite.

            Will stops before the cell as the man regards him with rapt attention, and Will, socially inept as he is, senses that something should be said in the silence to the man who has not thrown insults or innuendos at him, and that is coherent enough to sit upright.

            “Um,” he mumbles, unsure, before nodding his head in acknowledgement, “Good morning, er—” he refers to the clipboard in his hand that has his schedule on it, along with all the patient names in his block and where they are situated, “Doctor Lecter.”

            Hannibal smiles then, sincere as far as Will can tell, and returns his greeting. Will senses slight surprise from him, but the doctor keeps his emotions off his face well. He eyes Will’s plated name tag.

            “Are you new here, Mister Graham?”

            “Yeah. Got hired about a week ago,” Will replies, even though he’s not sure about conversing with a cannibalistic serial killer. Still, it seems rude not to answer, “Just got assigned this block this morning.”

            Hannibal hums with interest, “This is a rather quiet part of the hospital,” he says, before gesturing to the cells down from his own, “Unfortunately Miggs can get a bit noisy from time to time, and Gideon does enjoy mocking the guards, but most of the patients on this block are… well medicated, and will not cause much trouble.”

            Will blinks, he’s not sure what he was expecting from the man, but a quick rundown of what he should expect from the cellmates he would be watching wasn’t it. Still, it was more than he got from his fellow guards when he’d inquired about what he was getting into this morning when he was posted.

            Will blinks, takes in Hannibal’s neat cell: how his bed is made, how his art work is hung just so on the walls, how his books are organized, and at how clean his uniform is. He locks his gaze on the older man’s sharp cheek bone.

            “And you, Doctor Lecter? Do you cause much trouble?”

            Hannibal smiles at that, “Perhaps not for you, Mister Graham. Welcome to the high security wing of Baltimore’s Hospital for the Criminally Insane.”

            Will smiles back—an awkward stretch of lips because _hello,_ cannibalistic serial killer—before dipping his head once again in acknowledgement.

            “Thank you, Doctor Lecter.”

 

 

 

            From that very first day onward things go smoothly between the young guard and the serial killer he watched over. Will had a shift of nine to five on week days, with weekends off. Honestly, that was better than what he got working in New Orleans—as was the pay—though he would admit to missing the openness of being a detective, of being able to go _anywhere_ in his city, of only being chained to a desk once a job was completed.

            Now, he knows the walls and men that line the high security sector of the Baltimore hospital and that’s it. Sometimes he almost missed New Orleans enough to regret quitting.

            Almost, but never quite.

            He knew he made the right decision getting out with his sanity still intact, no matter what Jack Crawford had to say. And he had a lot to say on the matter of him quitting. _A lot._ But all of it was said without a care for Will’s wellbeing. He might have been a man with a lot of self-hate, but not enough to run himself into the ground, even with Crawford guilting and goading him on at every turn.

            Life as a prison guard paid well, and Will had more time for his dogs and fishing. Both of which were calming and worked much better than any pill the doctors he was pushed to see while on the force could ever prescribe. In the end he had decided he didn’t need medication, he needed rest and peace. He needed to not be hounded day in and day out to see how fucked up the world was—to see people at their worst.

            He needed to quit.

            So he did.

            And Will—well. He was content for now, and if he wasn’t in the future? He could fix it then. But as of now, nothing was broke.

 

 

 

            “Good morning Mr. Graham,” Hannibal greets from his small table, looking up from his drawing to give the young guard his full attention.

            “Morning Doctor Lecter,” Will walks idly to the food tray, opening the latch and sliding something inside, “I brought you an article I thought you might find interesting. I know you’re allowed books and medical journals, but this is from my local newspaper. I picked it up after I saw the news this morning.”

            Hannibal walks to the sliding tray—always with such grace, too much for someone in a prisoners jumpsuit—and takes up the article, reading it carefully through.

            “Interesting fellow, this Buffalo Bill,” the doctor says as he sits back at his chair, poised like a king on his throne, “Am I jumping to conclusions when I say it was Freddie Lounds who came up with the name?”

            Will sighs irritably. He’d never understand the man’s interest in such trash journalism, “No, you wouldn’t be. She thought it up and printed it almost before the guys first victim could be bagged and tagged.”

            “You find it tasteless.”

            “When _don’t_ I find Lounds tasteless?” Will huffs. He can feel irritation bubbling under his skin just thinking about the woman, but pushes it back as he regards the man in front of him, “Anyway, I just thought that’d be a little different then what the journals have been giving you.”

            “It is appreciated, Mister Graham.”

            “Anytime,” Will answers before he turns to walk back down the corridor. He’s not sure if he means it, but he thinks if Hannibal asked for more material on Buffalo Bill he’d probably cave. For one, the man is the only person in the entire hospital to show Will any ounce of respect. The other patients are rude at best while the other guards can be outright hostile. He was different, he knew, but they treated him like they did the patients they watched over.

            _(Barney Matthews is the only exception to this. He saw the man once every work day at lunch. They shared a table and light conversation. Barney was not condescending, was kind, and patient. Most importantly, he never asked why someone so overqualified was settling for a job under Fredrick Chilton.)_

And secondly, Will had discovered that talking to Hannibal about other killers was a truly stimulating conversation. It wasn’t like when Will spoke to Jack, who only wanted answers as quickly as possible and didn’t care about what was needed to get them, or to the doctors his precicnt had hired to _“help”_ him, who took in the way Will spoke about murder with poorly disguised disgust.

            No, talking to Hannibal about killers like Tobias Budge or Garret Jacob Hobbs was like dissecting poetry. There was no rush against time, no pressure to get the profile perfect. There was room for imagination, philosophizing, and extrapolation—building upon theories that could be completely off course of what was truth but worth creating all the same.

            So as Will walked up and down the concrete and steel corridor he thought that, _yes,_ if prompted, Will would happily supply Hannibal with more material on the budding serial killer. He was curious to see what they could come up with together with limited access and an evolving predator.

 

 

 

            “Dove in the coop!” a gruff guard Will had never seen before hollered as he slide open the iron bars that separated the high security wing from the rest of the hospital. Will regarded him with interest. _Dove in the coop_ usually proceeded a doctor or scheduled visitor entering the block. Will hadn’t been notified that anyone would be coming down today.

            He inwardly groaned as Fredrick Chilton turned the corner, but perked up with interest when he saw a young woman close behind him. Chilton stopped just outside the block.

            “—I think you’ll find him rather closed mouthed. You’re wasting your time.”

            “Thank you Doctor Chilton, but I’ve been asked to try. So I’m going to give it my best shot.”

            The woman makes her way past the guard and into the block. Will looks to Chilton for an explanation. The man just huffs, obviously irritated.

            “Show our guest out when she’s done, Mister Graham.”

            “Yes, sir.”

            The woman walks as confidently as she can muster down the corridor to Will, stopping next to him. He can practically smell her nervousness.

            “Hannibal Lecter?” she inquires.

            “Uh, last cell to the left,” he says, hesitates, then moves to show her himself. He thinks to ask her who she is, why she’s here, but if Chilton led her down here, he knows she belongs. It’s not his place to ask.

            There’s a procedure for when a civilian guest is in the high security block. Another guard is supposed to be posted, sent inside to stay at the guest’s side until they leave. It’s less about security and more about making that person _feel_ secure. Will guesses the woman pissed Chilton off enough to tell the gruff guard from before that he wouldn’t be necessary. Will figures he can stand at her side in intervals instead. She’s nervous enough as is, doesn’t need to be left alone on top of whatever she’s been asked to do.

            “Good morning,” Hannibal greets politely.

            “Doctor Lecter, my name is Clarice Starling. May I speak with you?”

            “You’re one of Crawford’s, aren’t you?” That brings Will up short, he looks between Ms. Starling and Hannibal bemused, but bites his tongue. If she’s one of Jack’s agents, she doesn’t need him by her side to hold her hand. Plus, Will thinks Hannibal would appreciate the privacy.

            Will turns to walk down to the opposite side of the corridor and waits for their conversation to be done.

            He isn’t surprised when he sees Clarice squirm in discomfort. He feels bad, almost, but if she’s one of Crawford’s she going to have to get used to dealing with people like Doctor Lecter _(perhaps not just like, as Will doubts there’s anyone in the world quite like Lecter)_. At least with Hannibal, she’s safe with him behind thick Plexiglas.

            As agent Starling slowly stands—most definitely unnerved—Will slowly makes his way toward her so he can escort her out. As he’s walking he hears a strange slick sound, slapping skin, and it take him a minute to piece together what it is. _Miggs,_ he thinks, and puts his hand out for Clarice to stop.

            “Ms. Starling please wait,” he says as he rushes to her. Obviously bemused she continues walking. _Fuck,_ Will thinks and he barely stops her before she’s in front of Miggs’s cell. Unfortunately, that puts him in the line of fire, and apparently he’s enough for the disturbed man to settle for.

            Clarice gasps a surprised _“oh”_ andWill hisses in disgust when thick strands of warm come tangle in his hair and drip down his face. He feels it at his jaw and cheek bone, his temple and glasses. _God it’s fucking gross._

            Miggs cackles with glee from his cage and Will takes a moment to set his jaw and not snap at the man. Gideon does it for him, anyway.

            _“Shut the fuck up, Miggs!”_

            Will does his best to wipe the mess from his face before using his clean hand to escort Clarice Starling out of the cell block by the elbow.

            “Sorry about that,” Will says and he has to concentrate on his walking to keep it a reasonable pace, unlike the sprint he’d rather make to the bathroom to scrub the _come_ off his face and out of his hair, “Miggs is a little… _excitable._ I’m sorry I didn’t realize what he was doing before.”

            His hands shake a little while he fishes the keys off his belt to open the gate, and he curses himself because that’s _just_ what he needs Starling to see.

            “It’s okay—I mean. I’m alright,” Clarice says, nerves fraying from first having a dress down from Hannibal Lecter and then almost getting _marked_ by Miggs, “Thank you though. I didn’t understand what you were saying and I—just thank you.”

            “Yeah well,” Will opens the gate and points her down the hall. He’d like to actually show her out _(and find a bathroom)_ but he’s not allowed to leave his post, “It’s kind of my job. There’s a guards station just that way. They’ll see you out.”

            Clarice nods and goes. She looks a little shell shocked but she seemed like a strong woman. Will thinks she’ll recover just fine from this ordeal. Definitely come out of it with horror stories to bring back to Quantico—and better experience if there’s a _next time._

            Will sighs heavily before reaching for his radio, “Station B, this is Will Graham in the high security wing. Code Yellow. Send clean-up crew. We’ll need to detain Miggs for a wash down—”

            “Mister Graham,” Will hears from down the corridor. He loathes the thought of having to walk by Miggs again, but he needs to check and make sure the man is okay. Might as well go to Hannibal while he’s at it.

            He walks briskly and with purpose to Miggs’s cell, peeking in only to find the man curled up on himself in a corner, naked and crying. He got like that sometimes after a fit. Will sighed, pushed his indignant anger aside, and crouched to eye level with the man.

            “Miggs?” the man whimpered, wheezing, shaking, “Miggs? Come on, you’re alright.”

            “No! No, no, _no, nonononono, sorry,_ sorry _, sorrysorrysorry,”_ He was getting hysterical, and Will wasn’t entirely sure how to calm the man down. Will was afraid he’d try to hurt himself, or the staff when they got down here.

            “Miggs, it’s okay, I’m not gonna hurt you—no one is going to hurt you,” the mantra of Sorry’s and No’s continued, but as more of a whisper now. Will softened his voice accordingly, “Some nurses are coming down to get you cleaned up. I know how much you enjoy showers, Miggs, and if you’re good and get yourself dressed, I’ll let them know you can do it yourself. Can you do that for me, Miggs?”

            The man sniffled and continued to cry, but he nodded an affirmative and grabbed at his jumpsuit.

            “Thank you, Miggs,” Will said as he stood, moving away to the next cell to give the man some form of privacy.

            “That was very kind of you, Mister Graham,” Hannibal said, starling Will. He’d nearly forgotten the doctor was there. Will turned his dirtied face away from the glass, shame coloring his cheeks.

            “Just doing what I’m paid for,” he sighed out, not really in the mood for conversation.

            “You are _paid_ to keep the monsters in their cages, Mister Graham, not calm them down or coddle them when they cry. Especially not after they’ve defiled your person.” Hannibal stepped closer to the glass barrier. Will was tempted to take a few steps back, he knew how well the doctor’s nose worked—he didn’t want the man to smell him… like this. He wasn’t entirely sure why it mattered to him. Perhaps it was because Hannibal was one of the very few people to ever treat him like an equal, instead of a head case.

            There was silence for a moment, until the sound of Hannibal’s tray being pushed out made Will look up.

            “Unfortunately this is all I can offer you, but it’ll help some before the nurses get down here.”

            Will took out the few things of toilet paper from the slide, face terribly hot with shame. He cleaned up the best he could—pulled some out of his hair, wiped off the side of his glasses, and his jaw—before turning back to Hannibal. Will made excruciating eye contact for a moment—“Thank you, Doctor Lecter”—before flicking his eyes down the corridor, where a small army of nurses and guards had come to collect Miggs.

            “Of course, Mister Graham,” Will missed the smile Hannibal gave him—the look. The calculating, appraising, _appreciative_ look. The doctor followed him with his gaze as he left to help the other hospital staff, sharp ears listening to the standard black work boots the man wore as Will left the block to a replacement guard so he could get better cleaned up. The smile lasted until Hannibal could no longer hear his Will. It slid from his face as he instead listened to the man not but a cell away from the doctor as he was dragged off for the showers, lip curling up in disgust before he turned into himself, and his books.

 

 

 

            Will goes home at five as always, leaving the high security block in the hands of a brute by the name of Joseph Patterson: a completely unremarkable giant with a smoking and alcohol addiction. Hannibal pays him no mind, and instead, rests on his bed with his back to the cold stone wall.

            “That was very rude of you Miggs,” he says, just loud enough to be heard. Miggs stirs from his cell, freshly washed and calmed down. He whimpers though, when he realizes he’s being addressed and by whom, “Now what’s to be done about that?”

            Hannibal can hear the man start to shake, can smell the salt of tears in the air. He smiles maliciously to himself, and gets to work.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fallout of Hannibal's disciplining Miggs for his rude behavior is not favorable, but Will won't let that affect the way he handles his responsibilities.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompts on the Hannibalkinkmeme will be the end of my college career tbh. #YOLO?

            Hannibal stays in isolation for a week, and Will suspects that the only reason he’s released so quickly has to do with the particularly insightful article Fredrick Chilton is able to publish in the  _Psychology Today_ _._ But no matter how Hannibal managed it, one week was not enough for the burning rage in Will’s chest to die down.

            “Why?” is the first thing he says to Hannibal when Will clocks in one morning to find he once again has a full house of crazy.

            The doctor raises a delicate brow at his growled question, “I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific, Mister Graham.”

            “You know damn well what I mean—why did you kill Miggs?”

            “As I recall, the man swallowed his own tongue.”

            “I’m not _stupid_ , Doctor Lecter. Miggs was messed up but not suicidal,” he huffs in irritation, _“Why did you kill Miggs?”_

            The doctor blinks at his clear agitation, a little taken aback by how angry the death of one patient has made the younger man.

            “He was rude,” Hannibal says simply, as though that were reason enough. With all the research Will’s done, he knows that it _is_ for the man before him, “Specifically, he was rude to _you._ ”

“To me?” Will parrots back in disbelief, “What does that have to—is it because of the, the _semen?”_ Will’s cheeks heat despite himself, but he holds firm in his argument, “Why would you kill Miggs because he was rude to _me?”_

“We are, if not friends, then acquaintances, are we not Mister Graham?”

            “Acquaintances don’t _kill_ to protect the other’s _dignity._ ”

            “Or perhaps you’ve just never had a proper acquaintance.”

            Will’s so angry his only response is a frustrated growl. He turns away from Hannibal’s cell, one hand gripping at his hip while the other runs tiredly over his face. The doctor realizes then—with the slightly slouched posture and the smudges under the younger man’s eyes—that Will has honestly been losing sleep over Miggs’s death. He had already pieced together why Miggs had swallowed his own tongue—why Hannibal had killed him—and guilt, it would seem, had been eating him alive.

            Hannibal frowns, “I never meant for Miggs’s death to upset you, Mister Graham.”

            It’s an apology, Will realizes, but not for killing Miggs. Only because the man’s death had weighed so heavily on Will’s shoulders. The young guard grunts, too pissed off to even reply properly, before resuming his walk down the corridor.

            Will doesn’t speak to Hannibal again for days after their argument.

 

 

 

            Will knows Hannibal Lecter is a very bad man. He’s read up some on what he had done to be arrested and earn himself such a horrendous reputation, Will _knows_ that the doctor has committed crimes that seem fit only for horror flicks as opposed to reality. Humiliation, torture, cannibalism—he was brought up for the crimes as the Chesapeake Ripper, but the more Will dug around, the more he felt like that couldn’t have been it for Hannibal. No, Doctor Lecter had killed many, _many_ more than the Ripper had claimed. Had committed more heinous crimes than he had been charged with.

            Will knows this—he’s not naive enough to think that years behind bars have changed the man whatsoever, Miggs was enough to _show_ him that—but that doesn’t mean he should get any less then what the law has allowed him. Hannibal Lecter was given life in the Baltimore Hospital for the Criminally Insane. And as a guard for said hospital, specifically for Hannibal’s sector, it was Will’s job to watch out for the man’s wellbeing. Even if it meant going against _colleagues._

Will Graham comes back from his lunch break to find three men who should _not_ be there in his sector, and his temporary replacement gone from his post. They’re gathered around Hannibal’s cell, rowdy and loud—they smudge their dirty hands against the glass and shout insults and threats. He recognizes two from shared breaks: Smith something and Carl Higgins—the third, a tree of a man, he does not know. But he’s holding the keys to the cells and approaching Hannibal’s door.

            “Excuse me,” he bites out, loud enough for the group to hear him over their shouting, “What do you think you’re doing?”

            Higgins turns, scoffing, to face Will, “Well look who decided to join us.”

            “Hello princess,” Smith coos, “Come to give us a hand?”

            Will doesn’t rise to the bait, “I’m going to need you three to leave.”

            The tree laughs, and Will wonders if the man could get much bigger _(Years of abuse drove him to excessive workouts. Now_ he’s _the bully, and it’s the only way he can grasp at control)._

            “That’s cute,” Smith says, “We’re just gonna have some fun. We’ll be outta your hair in a bit, Graham. Don’t get your panties in a wad.”

            _(‘Faggot’ isn’t a word he’s a stranger to—learned through his fists how to be a “proper” alpha male and validate his sexuality.)_

            Tree smirks and turns back to Hannibal’s cell door.

            “I said you need to _leave,”_ Will hissed, taking a threatening step forward. Twelve years on the force gave him experience with pigheaded assholes. He knew how to handle himself, “And I meant _now.”_

            “You’ve gotta be kidding me Graham,” Higgins hissed, “You know who this guy is, right? Who cares if we rough him up a bit?”

            _(His old man used to say the same thing—“who cares if I rough him up a bit? He needs to grow up and be a man!” Now he used violence to hide the wounded child his father left behind.)_

            “I care. Now give me the keys and get out of my block.”

            Everything was deadly silent for a beat, two, before Smith _clucked_ his tongue and looked back at the giant holding the ring of keys.

            “You heard’em Jason, man wants his keys back,” Smith reached back for the keys that Jason stiffly supplied, simmering in his anger. Will wasn’t stupid, the air was energized with too much testosterone and violent intent, leaving was the last thing on their minds.

He held his ground as Smith drew closer, face nearly blank. His posture was drawn tight, but Will couldn’t throw the first punch. There were cameras everywhere in the hospital, and he couldn’t be seen as an instigator, no matter what. He wasn’t going to have this flipped on him to favor the senior guards.

            Will put his hand out for the keys, and wasn’t surprised when he got a right hook instead. Will dodged to the right and back, his own fist swinging up to clip Smith in the jaw. The man fell back with an indignant yelp, landing ass first on the concrete as his head cracked into the Plexiglas wall. The keys clanked to the ground as Will pulled out his collapsible baton and flipped it out, holding it firm at the grip.

            “I’m giving you one last chance to walk out of here.”

            “That’s my line, princess,” Jason growled before lunging. As a detective, knowing how to use a baton properly had been the least of Will’s concerns. He wasn’t on the beat anymore; he did more office work than chasing down the baddies. But he had had a hardass for a trainer before earning the badge, and he made _sure_ the lessons stuck.

            Will struck out with the baton like it was a blade, striking down as opposed to smacking with its side, letting the force of impact travel up his arm. There were several popular striking points, all either at hard muscle or the joints. Will aimed for Jason’s inner thigh, wanting the _much_ larger man down for the count fast. He dodged the man’s meaty fist and struck out. Jason yelled in pain as steel met flesh, but he didn’t go down as Will thought he would. He swayed but steadied, and made a grab for his own baton instead.

            Another lesson drilled into Will’s head as a trainee was to _never_ hold still. Out in the field you’d almost never face a motionless target—they’d be on the offensive, striking out against you. You had to be able to move swiftly out their range.

            In a quick, practiced shuffle of feet Will was far enough to be out of reach, but close enough to gain ground to strike in a second. Jason swung a wide arch at Will, using the baton like a childhood bully would a stick, and the younger guard waited for the backwards sweep before shuffling in and striking at the man’s elbow.

            A distinct _snap_ rang through the air as Jason’s baton hit the floor, his arm going limp at his side. The man was so loud in his pain that Will missed Higgins’s charge—Hannibal’s warning—and was tackled to the ground before he knew what was happening. His head hit the concrete hard and he lost his grip on the baton. Higgins straddled Will and threw punch after punch at his vulnerable midsection in quick secession. Will gasped and yelped and swore as he struggled beneath the man, managing to strike out at his face—feel the crunch of cartilage under his fist. Blood gushed from the man’s nose and onto Will as he wiggled and kicked his way out from under Higgins. A well placed boot to the chest had him falling backwards and into Jason, toppling both wounded men over.

            Will huffed and hissed as every breath struck agony through his ribs; his head throbbed with the beat of his heart.

 _“William!”_ it wasn’t a shout, but it was the damned loudest Will had ever heard Hannibal’s voice climb. Will looked up to see Smith standing over him, face contorted into pure rage and baton raised high above his head. Will turned to his side to gain traction as he swung his leg out to sweep Smith’s out from under him, knocking the older man over and forcing the baton lower from its original target, hitting his upper thigh hard.

            Will cried out as pain raced up and down his leg; tears stung at his eyes as he grabbed at Smith’s dropped baton and threw it to the other side of the corridor and out of reach of the crumpled, groaning man. Will struggled to sit upright, and drag himself away from his slowly recovering assailants.

 _“Shit,”_ he hissed as he pulled his radio off his belt. There wasn’t actually a dedicated term for what just happened—for guards attacking a fellow guard—so Will just called in a code Red that’d been contained, and requested back up and medical assistance. Station B wasn’t so far away as to not have heard the commotion, there had been too much yelling, and Will suspected that’s where Smith, Jason, and Higgins had come from. Help would be coming from a level above the basement then, they’d be a good minute. He hoped none of them were buddy-buddy with the assholes he’d just struck down.

            “William?”

            Will hugged at his ribs with one hand and used the other to support himself, panting and wheezing as he struggled to pull in air. His leg left like it was on fire.

            “Yes Doctor Lecter?” Will looked over to the man’s cell and was surprised to see him squatting down to Will’s level.

            Hannibal stared hard for a few moments, and Will almost spoke out when the doctor cut him off.

            “Thank you.”

            “Yeah well, I guess _technically_ I was just returning the favor.”

            Hannibal smiled at his sarcasm, at his morbid humor, his implied _acceptance_ of the doctor’s earlier apology, if not for killing Miggs, then for causing Will so much duress.

            “You’re not too injured, I hope.”

            “No way. Just gonna be _really_ sore for the next couple of… _forevers,_ actually. At least with me going by what it feels like,” Will grinned, though it felt more like a grimace, and _almost_ made eye contact with the serial killing cannibal, “You’re not getting rid of me that easily, Doctor Lecter.”

            “I should hope not,” Hannibal smiled in return, “However, Will, I have a request for you,” Will hummed in interest though distractedly, trying to breathe shallowly to ebb some of the pain, “Do drop the formalities. I think by now you’ve earned the right to call me by my given name.”

            Will frowned and looked hard at the doctor, thinking. He heard the team of nurses and guards from the floor above begin to flood the corridor of the high security wing and considered all the reasons why he should tell the doctor _‘no’_ and stick to procedure.

            Instead, a nervous smile flickered over his lips as he dropped his eyes to the floor, “Okay… Hannibal.”

            The doctor drew himself up to his full, intimidating height as the skittering staff of Baltimore’s hospital flittered about the four injured men, trying to piece together what had happened. Will was distracted by the commotion around him, and didn’t notice the satisfied expression that settled over Hannibal’s face, or the smile that crept over his lips like a reaching vine; his pupils dilated.

            When the mess was all sorted out and the guards taken to the infirmary, Hannibal sat in his cell alone and played the sound of William’s voice saying his name over and over again, like a prized opera, until the doctor swore he could feel the vibrations of the sweet melody at his ear. He had missed the boy’s voice, like a mother missed her child.

            The soft tones washed over Hannibal’s mind and drenched him, like a man dying of thirst, into contentment. For the moment he was satisfied, but knew that no matter what, he could never get enough of his Will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go. 
> 
> Constructive criticism is savored like fine wine.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal plots an escape, and the ambulance is there to pick up *someone*.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uhg okay so I split the last part in two since it's taking me so long to finish up the final couple of scenes. I've had a few of you on tumblr ask if I was on a complete hiatus and that made me feel guilty.
> 
> Anyway, rest assured I'm working on it, it's just that when I finish it, I'm unhappy with how it turns out. But this part's long enough to be its own chapter so--here ya go. I'll just do this in 4 parts instead of 3.
> 
> Chapter warnings: no one helps Will Graham.

            Will gets a full two week leave after the incident with the Station B guards, and a good mark on his record. Fredrick Chilton calls him personally in the midst of his break to thank him for his conduct, and to encourage him to ‘ _keep up the good work’_. It’s bullshit and the man couldn’t care less about a lowly labor man, but Will takes the thanks with all the grace he can muster. Considering who he is and his social capabilities, he still probably offended the egotistical man somehow.

            It doesn’t keep Will up at night.

            By the time Will returns to work he can almost say he’s sick of fishing. His dogs had certainly benefitted from his break though. They’d thoroughly enjoyed the attention he’d given them, and they whine and cry when he leaves Monday morning to return to his post. He makes a mental note to make them something extra special for dinner—maybe some of the fish he stored away.

            He’s overjoyed that he can finally chuck his crutches and take a deep breath without it feeling like his ribs were splintering just beneath the skin.

            When Will gets to the hospital he’s expecting everything to mostly be the same. He turns out to be very, _very_ wrong, because almost nothing concerning his cell block is. Or at least, his post.

            “Glad to see you back at work,” Barney greets him in the lobby, “But I’m afraid you’re back just in time to be knee deep in a jumbled mess.”

            And a jumbled mess it is. Hannibal had apparently decided to dive head first into helping a U.S. Senator find her missing daughter, kidnapped by Buffalo Bill of all people. Of course, the doctor has demands.

            “When he finds the Senator’s daughter, Lecter will be permanently transferred to a hospital down in Florida,” Barney goes on to explain, “Until then he’s being held in the Baltimore courthouse. Chilton’s assigning a team of his own personnel to manage Lecter while he’s in different holdings, alongside the local police and FBI agents that’ll be watching him. You’re one of the people he’s assigning.”

            When it’s all said and done, Will ends up having to call his neighbors and ask if they wouldn’t mind keeping an eye on his dogs. His hours just got totally screwed over and he’s not certain when he’ll be home. He lets them use the lake on his land often, so they don’t complain. He’ll be sure to pay them for their help when he gets home anyway.

            The “cell” Hannibal gets at the courthouse seems much more suited for the man than the utilitarian stone and steel cage he’s been in for the last few years, and Will will admit that walking in circles to ensure the doctor’s confinement is a more pleasant task with Goldberg playing softly into the crisp air.

            Throughout it all, even with the strangers all around them, Will and Hannibal’s normal back and forth does not falter.

_“I’m sure your dogs appreciated your prolonged vacation.”_

_“Understatement. I thought I’d have to pry them off of me to get out the door this morning. I’ll bribe them with fish jerky when I get home though. Almost always works.”_

            When lunch rolls around, Will breaks out into a wicked grin, because of _course_ one of Hannibal’s terms was better _(way better)_ food.

            “Do you think this’ll count as experience if I filled out a resume to be a waiter?” he jibes lightly as the local PD cuffs the doctor to the side of his new cage so Will can enter safely. He’s mindful of Hannibal’s artwork when he sets the steaming plate down, and sets it to the side of the table so the corners are not even smudged.

            “Thank you,” Hannibal says sincerely, and Will appreciates it, even if the cop with him distinctly does _not._ The man, Officer Gordon, is older than Will by far, his hair leaning more towards salt than pepper, but his body is solid. He carries himself stiffly throughout the entire day, eying Hannibal like he’s going to try some grand charade to escape.

            Will doesn’t like it. The guys high strung nerves put him on edge, make him feel twitchy, makes _him_ watch Doctor Lecter more closely in charged paranoia. Will had been a cop once upon a time, and just because he’d gotten friendly with the doctor didn’t mean he’d dismiss a senior officer’s gut feeling. In the field, those same feelings had saved Will’s life countless times.

            Dinner rolls around with no problems rearing their head. That doesn’t mean Gordon is any more at ease. If anything, he’s grown more tense as the evening went on. But dinner proceeds as planned, dishes are taken in and dishes are taken out, light conversation carries on. If Hannibal notices how coiled tight Will has become, he doesn’t say anything.

            Will feels like a bow string drawn taught, ready to snap. And something’s got to give.

            It’s almost midnight when a request for a second dinner is made. Will frowns but doesn’t comment. The doctor had been locked up in Baltimore’s Hospital for the Criminally Insane for years now—Will would take advantage of the opportunity to eat _real_ food if given the chance too. But as justifiable as the demand is, Will can’t shake a cold, dreaded feeling that’s settling at pit of his stomach.

            It feels almost like anticipation but Will doesn’t know what he’s supposed to be _anticipating._ Hannibal does as he’s told and slowly walks to the corner of his cell, puts his back to the bars with his arms through the holes so he can be cuffed in place. He’s behaving _perfectly_ , taking orders and following them to a T.

            Once again when Will moves to put the steaming plate down on the table he finds intricate drawings in the way. He sets the plate onto the floor next to Hannibal and rolls up the artwork, moving it to a seat on the other side of the cage. They were gorgeous works, if a bit creepy considering the young Agent Starling had been Hannibal’s muse for the past few hours. Still, the man had an eye for detail.

            Will kneels down to grab for the plate again, but in a flurry of movement Hannibal wraps and snaps closed one of the hand cuffs around Will’s wrist. He looks up at Hannibal in complete shock as time seems to slow between them. Will makes startled eye contact and reads a whirlwind of emotions from the older man—relief, excitement, sadness, regret, _hunger_ —as panic churns in his stomach and makes his heart gallop in his chest. Before Will can so much as lift a finger to defend himself, Doctor Lecter grabs a fist full of Will’s hair and _slams_ the side of his head against the barred wall.

 _“Graham!”_ he hears Gordon yell, but his limbs are shaky and weak as he collapses in a heap on the ground, arm drawn up by biting metal. The world sounds as though he’s under water, muffled and distant, but Will can definitely hear the screams of agony ripping from Gordon’s throat, even as he sways at the precipice of unconsciousness.

            Will’s vision goes dark and out of focus, his head spins and _throbs;_ he feels blood trickle from his temple into a puddle beneath his head. When the screaming stops, Will feels hands come to his waist and undo his belt, slipping it, and every potential weapon he has, off of him. He thinks he hears it tossed and land on hard concrete somewhere across the room.

            Slowly Will’s senses come back to him, his coordination comes back to him, and he’s opening his eyes to the sight of Officer Gordon bleeding out from the neck just outside the cell, face torn and ravaged as though by— _oh god—_ teeth.

 _“Fuck,”_ Will hisses, scanning the room for the doctor. He doesn’t see him at first, disorientated in a way that he _knows_ means at least a mild concussion, and works on pushing himself upright, leaning his back against the barred wall as he tries to get the room to stop spinning around him. Will yanks at his restrained hand, grunting in frustration because _of course_ the keys to the cuffs were on his belt, which he spots just feet from Gordon’s cooling corpse. Will looks over at his restrained arm and fidgets as he contemplates breaking his thumb. He freezes like a deer in headlights when movement out of the corner of his eye catches his attention.

            Hannibal stands tall, almost ridged with how perfect his posture appears at the opposite end of the cell. A smile works at his lips, his mouth and cheeks smeared with blood _(from where he tore into Gordon like a dog would a steak)._ A jolt of fear shoots down Will’s spine and his skin breaks out in gooseflesh as his heart races in his chest. How many articles had he gone through with morbid interest since meeting Hannibal Lecter—detached and desensitized? Severed limbs, missing organs, operations conducted without the mercy of unconsciousness—all the gruesome photos of the Chesapeake Ripper’s victims painted the back of Will’s eyelids in a gory mosaic.

            Will found his hand going for his hip in reflex, not for his baton but an older though retired companion, something he hasn’t had to use in a very long time. Something he hasn’t been scared shitless enough to even _think_ about in the last few months. He’s never felt the absence of his gun so wholly until now.

            Hannibal’s eyes follow the movement, take it in for what it is before the sharp corners of his smile seem to soften. He approaches Will slowly, like a startled colt.

            “Hannibal,” Will says, voice steadier than he thought he could produce, “Stop this, whatever _this_ is.”

            Will knows better than to beg, knows the doctor would only turn his lip up in disgust if he tried.

            “You have to know how impossible escape will be even with Gordon and me out of the way. You’re out of your cell—okay. Now what? There’s an _army_ of FBI and local PD down stairs just _waiting_ for you to try and pull something. This can only end badly for you—worse with two dead officers on your already impressive list of victims.”

            As the doctor drew nearer Will braced himself against the metal bars; he didn’t think he could stand he was so dizzy and nauseated—Will wasn’t even sure if he could take to his full height handcuffed as he was. His breathing turned into short, shallow pants as his imagination ran wild with what could be coming next. He _knew_ what had happened to the other _(discovered)_ victims of Hannibal Lecter. Will couldn’t help but wonder if the doctor would make his end quick, or draw it out like he had with Cassie Boyle, like he had with Jeremy Olmstead.

            “I am almost wounded that you would think so little of me, William,” Hannibal stops just out of reach of Will’s legs, “To think I would go so far only to have neglected a plan that assured my escape.”

            Years of experience as a beat cop slip through Will’s head like melted butter. He grasps madly at procedure, at the training that had been all but beaten into him for years while working the streets, but everything has exploded into pure light and air and color and adrenaline. Fear usually focuses Will’s attention, but the concussion and terror have uprooted him. Will has slipped in and out of Hannibal’s head—his perception—countless times by accident or otherwise over the last few months. He knows on a personal level what could be in store for him.

            “Unfortunately, I had not planned for you,” Hannibal’s voice grows low with what—impossibly—sounds like regret. Will finds it hard to believe considering how steadily the doctor’s gripping the bloody knife from his second dinner at his side, “I won’t insult you with an apology, Will, but I’m being honest when I say I did not know you would be back from your leave so soon. You were not supposed to be here for this.”

 _“Hannibal,”_ Will says, his voice suddenly stern—a warning. He pulled his legs in, coiling around himself like a snake preparing to strike—or, perhaps more accurately, like a cornered mongoose preparing to face off with its reptilian nemesis—and the doctor can’t help but be proud. His boy wasn’t going to go down without a fight, just as it should be. If nothing else, he was in love with Will’s fire and stubborn spirit.

            There is a silence then, for a beat or two or three. An undetermined amount of time passes where Will hold’s painful eye contact and Hannibal regards his pretty little hospital guard with a calculating stare, the younger man’s unsteady breathing punctuating their unsavory situation. The doctor is calm and still up until the moment he’s not, and Will _(his sweet, sweet boy)_ puts up a valiant fight when the moment between suspended silence and violence shatters.

            The legs are what Hannibal goes for first. Will kicks out—a strong strike that, if it had connected to the targeted knee, could have broken the doctor’s leg. Instead, Hannibal catches the offending limb with only a slight sting running up his arm, and yanks and pulls the man onto his back until he’s sprawled and struggling on the concrete floor. With his bound arm pulled taut and awkward from where it’s still cuffed to the barred wall, Will is all but helpless when Hannibal straddles his upper thighs, taking his bottom half out of the brawling equation.

            Will bucks his hips and kicks out in vain, grunting in effort but never yelling in his frustration. There wouldn’t be a point, as they both know. No one can hear them now.

            With all but one arm incapacitated, Will claws and scratches at Hannibal as the doctor wraps a strong hand around his throat. It doesn’t cut off his air, just holds the struggling guard in place as the doctor—unconcerned with the fingernails digging into the flesh of his arm—leans over Will and catches his rabbit skittish gaze; tries to hold it.

            “Will,” Hannibal says, repeating himself more sternly when the man beneath him refuses to keep eye contact. The doctor smiles gently when panicked grey-blue finally cease their aimless fluttering. Hannibal runs the bloodied dinner knife feather light over the boy’s temple, momentarily stilling Will’s insistent struggles as the boy waits for the sting of a cut that will not come in trepidation. The slick steak knife leaves a red smeared trail as the doctor drags it down a lightly stubbled jaw, caressing it over thinned, sealed lips.

            “Red is a good color for you, William,” Hannibal says, breaking the eye contact as he becomes enraptured as he paints the blood of the _late_ Officer Gordon across his darling boy’s pale skin.

            “Enough with the mind games,” Will hisses when the knife moves away from his mouth, dipping low to his throat. The cold, _wet_ contact at the peak of his Adam’s apple makes his stomach cramp with nerves. His voice is not as steady as he would have hoped, “Don’t insult me with this field kabuki bullshit, _Hannibal._ Get it over with.”

            When the doctor’s maroon eyes flick up from where his knife paints almost idly now, they seem almost startled—as though he’d all but lost himself in his little _indulgence_ and forgotten that his canvas was still completely alive and _unwilling._

            “You think I plan to kill you?” the doctor sounds amused, “That would be such a waste. And I’d like to think I have given a better impression of myself to you, William. You should know I take great care of what is mine.”

            Will scoffs in exasperated, _outraged_ disbelief, but the doctor goes on as if he hadn’t made a peep, the knife finally leaving his skin as the older man sat back. Will doesn’t struggle, ashamed but afraid that resistance would only bring the blade back.

            “Things are about to get very messy for you. Whatever happens, I want you to remember our time together, Will. Remember what _you_ know to be true, not what others think they have so cleverly strung together. This is important, William. Do _not_ allow your judgments to be ruled by those around you.”

            Will’s brow furrows in confusion and incredulity. The doctor wasn’t making any sense.

            “I don’t—” Will cuts off with a pained gasp. His mouth falls open with a rough groan, spine arching in reflex, eyes screwing shut. His free hand flies frantic from where it gripped at the bruising hold at his throat to the knife now imbedded in his gut.

            “Shhhh,” Hannibal hums softly, removing his hold at Will’s neck to pet softly through unruly curls instead, “Don’t struggle; lie still. You’re going into shock now. I don’t want you to feel any more pain than absolutely necessary.”

 _“Fuck,”_ Will hisses through gritted teeth, trying to motivate heavy limbs into a proper struggle. He holds onto the hand gripping the knife as tightly as he can, trying to keep the doctor from causing more damage than already done. He absently pulls on his restrained hand _(later, when he wakes up in the hospital, he’ll learn that in his frantic state he’d cut multiple gashes into his wrist doing this)_ and his breathing turns into stuttered, rabbit fast, shallow _scrambles_ for air.

            Things get muddy after minutes _(hours, years, decades)_ of the doctor’s soft, ‘soothing’ words and gentle petting. He does not twist the knife as Will was so sure he would, or cut up to gut him like a prized game animal. Instead, when Hannibal stands to leave, he curls his fingers around Will’s hand to make sure he’s applying pressure and stability to the knife wound. By then Will’s breathing has turned unsteady and slow. He can barely keep his eyes focused and open, and the pain in his side is now a constant throb.

 _“I will see you soon, my darling boy,”_ is followed by a soft press of lips to his sweaty brow. When Will finally remembers this—after _days_ of incoherency from too much morphine and too little blood—he will chalk it up to mental trauma, to his mind stewing in paranoia. He will tell himself this to protect that small, sheltered part of his mind that isn’t having a total breakdown over being stabbed and left for dead _(not true, but he refuses to believe Hannibal’s parting words)._ For losing his job and being stuck in a hospital for what the doctors tell him will be _weeks._ The fucking medical bills alone—

            And then Jack Crawford comes storming into his little room on the fourth floor of the housing wing of Baltimore’s hospital. He comes with evidence _(closure, he says as justification for bringing_ anything _to do with Lecter case near him)_ and a profile that says the cannibal doctor harbored an unhealthy obsession with one Clarice Starling. Will feels guilty because he’s kind of relieved, because now he knows that Hannibal won’t come after him _(lies, all of it. He knows better but he doesn’t_ want _to)._ He won’t be bothered again, he’ll return to his little farm house in bumfuck, Virginia and he’ll heal. He’ll scramble to keep up with medical bills he doesn’t have a job to pay for and he’ll _heal._ He’ll be okay.

            When he’s finally discharged from the hospital, the search for Hannibal the Cannibal has moved from the states to overseas.

            Will determinedly ignores the sinking feeling in his gut, and pretends that it’s just an empty comfort when he stashes his guns sporadically throughout his house.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look man, this update was taking wayyyy too long. This chapter isn't even finished, but it has been forever since I've done anything with this fic so fuck it. Definitely not abandoning it or anything, I just haven't had the urge to write lately. Now that I'm all but flunking my classes though, I seem to have been hit by inspiration. #YOLO #WhateverWorks

          The book comes out just a month after Will is released from the hospital. The cover is an ominous black, with _“HOW THE RIPPER RIPPED FREE”_ in bold red lettering, the font designed to look like blood smears. If Freddie Lounds was going for _tasteless_ , she got it in one. Not that she often missed the mark.

          Will had thrown out his television the moment he got home. He’d known from his stay at Baltimore General that his and Hannibal’s face was still plastered all over the news _(and probably Starling’s by now, despite how the FBI would try to keep that close to chest)_. If he hadn’t, he might not have made the mistake of ever even _considering_ Freddie’s desperate climb for fame. He would have seen the advertisement for the 300 paged piece of shit literature that caught fire in sales across the country, which tantalized readers and gave stations like FOX and CNN something to squawk about for years to come.

          Will sees it while making a quick run to a local book store, needing _something_ to keep himself occupied with television out of the equation, and on impulse—born of anger and masochistic interest—puts it in his basket. After all, who wouldn’t be a little curious seeing something so horrific and personal spelled out in 12 Times New Roman font, _“pictures included”,_ for only $19.99?

          The dogs don’t get fed that night, or walked. Will spends the evening curled up on his sofa engrossed in Freddie’s shitty prose. Word after word is taken in, absorbed, and weighed. He doesn’t know how she could have gotten so much information in such little time. She has Will’s full life story in the span of 16 chapters. From when he and his father lived boatyard to boatyard, to Will’s college years, his time on the New Orleans Police Force, to his employment at the Baltimore Hospital for the Criminally Insane. It’s all there, every last part of William Graham, for the world to see.

          He’s not painted with a flattering brush, either. No, he is most definitely _not_ the hero in Freddie’s story.

          Tears smudge a few of the pages, and when Will finally finishes the damn thing, from cover to cover, he finds himself leaning over the toilet, vomiting what little he had gotten down that day and sobbing uncontrollably. There was a picture at the very end, with a few words for caption: _when two deranged minds meet, when two psychopaths bare their fangs and_ bite, _only one can walk away, as Will Graham now has firsthand experience._

          At some point, Freddie had gotten into his hospital room. It must have been during the first few days, when he was so out of his mind on morphine he could barely _think._ His blanket has been thrown to the side, and from the chest down he is exposed. In full color. On laminated paper. An ugly red wound stands stark just under his ribcage, a constant and disgusting reminder of Hannibal’s cruelty—something Will will never be able to escape. And now, the whole world can see his ugliness too.

          Will doesn’t sleep that night. He turns on the shower as hot as it will go and stays in there until he’s shivering from the cold. By five in the morning, the dogs are whining and impatient, hungry and wanting to go outside. Guilt for neglecting them finally gets him out of the shower. He feeds them, and lets them all play outside until the sun starts to come up. He takes some meds, lays down in bed, and doesn’t get up until the dogs whine their discomfort again sometime much, much later.

          By the next morning he’s doing a little better. Will sees the book siting open on the couch where he had left it, feels fury run rampant through his veins, a ghost pain sting from his still healing stomach. He burns the book, watches dancing flames eat the 300 paged _humiliation_ , and throws out the ashes when they cool.

          He doesn’t go to the bookstore again.

 

 

 

          When dealing with serial rapists, murderers, true sadists, and sociopaths on a near daily basis for a good chunk of their adult life, one can forget the little things that make life hard. Being a New Orleans detective and consulting for the FBI gave Will perspective on the truly _fucked up,_ and after being hospitalized for life threatening injuries given to him by a criminally insane _~~(friend)~~ _ patient _,_ at a job that was supposed to be a _break_ from all the dark places police work sent him, Graham had lost touch with the small frustrations of normal life. But fresh out of Baltimore General, Will was slapped in the face with a reminder that people in general, not just the crazies, were assholes, and the financial departments of hospitals were exceptional examples of the common rabbles ugliness.

          Will has spent the entirety of his morning on the phone arguing with a woman who seems damned determined to overcharge him. He had been in the hospital for three weeks— _three_ —yet his billing states he’d been there for twice as long. His health insurance is good for a third of what he owes, but that’s it, and that didn’t include the physical therapy he had to go through. He cannot afford the extra time the hospital has claimed he has stayed.

          “I’m sorry, sir, but the statement clearly shows—”

          “ _Fuck the statement,”_ he explodes finally. The dogs jump at his outburst, his belly burns with the strain, but he can’t bring himself to feel bad, “I was in the hospital from March 3rd to the 24th. I was _not_ hospitalized at all during the month of April. The paperwork I _personally_ sent you says as much. Now fix your fucking files and do your job.”

          “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to calm do—”

          “Get me your manager,” he hisses.

          “I don’t think that’s nec—”

          “Get me your god damned manager, _now.”_

          It is late afternoon by the time Will finally gets off the phone. He is dizzy and sore; a look at his wristwatch tells him he’s late for his next dose of medication. Will sighs, frustrated, and scrounges his pills out. He swallows them dry on his way to the kitchen. He halfheartedly makes a turkey sandwich, gets four bites in, and promptly throws it all back up. He wonders how he’s supposed to gain weight back and stay healthy when his meds make him feel like a new mom suffering acute morning sickness.

          Will collapses onto the couch, too tired and in too much pain to try to actually keep something down. The dogs are all too happy to eat his scraps. He dozes with thoughts of distant white sand beaches, his fishing pole jammed firmly into the shore next to him as he lazes on Florida’s west coast. His imagination, as intense and detailed as it can be, allows the ghost touch of an early afternoon’s sun warm him. He allows himself to contemplate what it would be like to move out there, to live in the little beach shack he saw advertised on the internet. There are a plethora of reasons he can’t just up and move holding him back, keeping him in Wolf Trap—money, the dogs, selling his house and land in the current market—but for now he ignores them all and fantasizes about moving far, far away.

          Will is calmed and near boneless when a sharp rapping at the door makes him get up with a groan. Any ounce of peace he’d managed flies out the window when he opens his front door.

          “Jack,” he greets coldly.

          “Will,” the agent has the decency to at least look a little abashed to be there.

          “I filled out the incident report, I talked to half dozen of your agents and the local PD. There is nothing else I can tell you, and aside from interpretative dance, there is no other way I can describe that night to you. What do you want?”

          “Fear makes you rude, Will,” Jack says with a sigh, irritated but trying to keep it to himself. He wants something, and arguing won’t make getting it any easier.

          “And you have _such_ a sunshiny disposition yourself,” the younger man snaps, “Now what do you want?”

          Jack’s lips thin as his temper rises. He was probably hoping that the last couples of weeks sleeping in his own bed and being out of the hospital had improved Will’s attitude, settled his temper at least enough for him to make it inside the door before getting stone walled. Maybe in his little fantasy Will offered him something to drink and tiptoed around the subject before descending upon it with all the grace such social situations called for.

          For the head of the Behavioral Science Unit, Jack could be a real horrible judge of character.

          “Alright look, you want to skip the pleasantries? Fine. We’ve got three tableaus, Will. Three. In three different countries. All dating to almost the exact same day. It is geographically _impossible_ for any of them to have been constructed by the same killer.”

          “You say ‘tableau’ instead of body. You think one of them is Lecter?” Will asks dryly.

          “ _One_ of them. And that’s where we need your help,” Jack says, and he’s the closest to pleading Will has ever seen the man. Probably the closest to pleading _anyone_ has ever seen the man. There’s a tense silence then, and Will tells himself _no,_ he does _not_ need to do this. Crawford had an entire branch of the FBI at his disposal. Heimlich at Harvard. Bloom at Georgetown. They did exactly what he did.

          Except that wasn’t quite true, was it? He’d always had a “unique” way of thinking. The thought leaves a bitter taste at the back of his throat. Will didn’t want to do this, _shouldn’t_ do this, but if he didn’t, more people would die.

          “I’ll look, Jack,” he sighs, all the fight leaving him with a despondent breath, “I’ll _look,_ but only this once. I tell you which is an original Lecter, and then you leave me alone.”

          For a moment, a spark flares to life in Jack’s eyes, like he’s going to argue the point, drag their conversation back into choppy waters so he can get more. _‘Don’t be greedy, Jack’,_ he thinks. If the man dare pushes, he’ll _really_ make him work for his acquiesce. In the end, Jack gives Will a tight nod, his lips pursed and all over expression reluctant.

          Like an old dog with a bone, he just won’t let go. Luckily for Will, that old _dog_ has been kicked in the teeth enough times in the past. Dropping the bone has been a hard lesson learned, but it _has_ been learned. Will grabs his coat, locks up the house, and climbs into his _own_ car to follow Jack to keep some form of control over what they’re about to do. If he was going to Quantico, he was going to have the ability to leave when _he_ deemed it necessary.

 

 

 

          On the way to the bureau, a sense of dread forms into an almost physical thing at the pit of Will’s stomach. In his home, with a desperate Jack Crawford on his doorstep and an angry fire pumping through his veins, the situation hadn’t truly sunk in, not really. He’d been so used to being isolated in Wolf Trap, like a boat left adrift on the open sea, that the prospect of the outside world had turned into a dream almost, a non-reality.

          Will hadn’t left his property for anything other than groceries and his prescriptions since he’d picked up Freddie’s shitty excuse for a book. Buckled behind the wheel of his Volvo, looking out the window as the world seemed to _grow_ around him, Will’s traitorous mind ran through old crime scenes. None of them were murders he’d investigated personally, no, he didn’t have that mercy. All the scenes burned into the back of his eyelids were from old case file pictures, their pixels morphed into mutilated bodies, poor dead _swine_ ; the rudeturned into _art._

          Will’s mind goes through everything Hannibal Lecter has done _(what the FBI was_ aware _of)_ until the day he escaped custody, the day he had killed Officer James Gordon and gutted Will Graham. In the bone arena of his skull, amidst the churning chaos, Goldberg’s Variations plays like some sick elevator music in the background of his quickly panicking thoughts.

          He never should have agreed to go to Quantico, innocent lives be damned.

          He should have stayed home with his dogs, well medicated and basking on the white beaches of Florida.

 

 

 

          Sharp concrete and steel greet Will as he pulls into the bureau parking lot, utilitarian and familiar. The building is cold as it has always been, forbidding and ominous as any of his nightmares.

          When Will walks through the front door, he can’t help but feel as though he’s dancing upon his own grave.

 

 

 

          “Will?” he knows that voice. He knows that voice and it’s terribly lovely, musical tone. The smell of a warm spring day permeates the air, an announcement all of its own of who just entered the lab behind him. Will fights down a flinch, to not curl his fists and grit his teeth. Once upon a time, that voice and that scent would have put him right at ease. Now it just made him want to vomit with nerves.

          “Alana,” Will greets, turning to face the shocked woman.

          “What are you—,” soft features morph into righteous fury, “Did Crawford drag you down here?”

          “No one dragged anyone anywhere,” Jack sighs, resigned now that Alana is there. Obviously, he’d meant for her to be far away from the labs while Will was there, not wanting a repeat of old times, “He even came in his own car.”

          “So you didn’t go to his house then, like I told you not to. And you _didn’t_ guilt trip him into helping you catch Lecter when—”

          “You are a consultant, Dr. Bloom,” Jack raises his voice, defensive, “You do not tell me what I can and cannot do.”

          “You’re right, but I can damn well tell you when you’re being a pigheaded, selfish _bastard!_ Was Miriam not enough for you? Was Will not enough the _first time?”_

 _“Alana,”_ Will whispers, harsh and desperate. She looks at him and her face is red with anger and indignation. There are tears in her eyes. She means well, he knows she does.

          “Just stop. Please? I can do this. I’ll be alright.”

          Tears fall down pale cheeks. Alana looks at Will like he’s a broken thing, like he’s a beaten animal that’s stopped trying to hide itself and now just lets the blows come. She’s disappointed in him— _this is what you got away from to begin with,_ she wants to say, but doesn’t. And this is why Will hadn’t talked to her since her brief visit at the hospital, of which he was so doped up on pain meds he was barely conscious for. This is why he hadn’t planned on ever contacting Alana ever again.

          “No, you won’t, Will. You _aren’t.”_

          Will doesn’t have anything to say to that, because she’s right. He’s broken, shattered—useless glass shards that used to _be_ something, but are now too fragmented to be put back together again. He turns his back to her and gives his full attention to the evidence spread before him. He scans over pictures and documents with unseeing eyes, motionless until he hears the all too familiar _‘tap’, ‘tap’, tap’_ of Alana Bloom walking away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uhg sorry no Hanni this chapter, but the next one is all murder husbands I pinky swear.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my attempt to keep the Hannibal Kinkmeme alive and well. Fingers crossed more prompts get filled, eh?
> 
> Original Prompt: http://hannibalkink.dreamwidth.org/3166.html?thread=6143582&posted=1#cmt6145886


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